


Cold Iron, Winter King

by StarsGarters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Brock is just one tasty Fae buffet, Demons, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid, Grief/Mourning, Kinda, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Sensuality, Star-crossed, Succubi & Incubi, Vore, Xenophilia, demons are weird as fuck, gender is for humans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: Brock is heart-sick from losing his best friend Jack decades ago in a bizarre abduction. His whole life has been defined by that one terrible moment so when a runaway Fae knocks on the door of the furniture store where he works, it doesn't take much to convince him to run away too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't like the version of the story that I uploaded earlier. This is much better.

“Don’t make me leave you behind, Brock!”

Brock rolled his eyes at Jack as he tied his running shoe laces. “Like you could!” He shouted back and ran down the trail towards his friend’s voice. Light dappled down through the tree-top canopy and painted the running trail with spots of glowing gold. Jack was leaning against a tree in his cross-country singlet, yawning just to spite Brock.

He grinned at Brock, “Took you forever. I’m an old man now, it took you so long.”

Brock flipped him off and ran down the trail.

Brock’s lungs ached and his muscles burned with exertion, but Jack easily passed him before they reached the end of the trail and Brock spat upon the dirt in frustration. He leaned over and braced his hands on his knees, tried to catch his breath. Jack always beat him. Brock looked up, panting and stared at Jack. Light brown hair dark with sweat, flushed cheeks and a permanent grin. Brock swallowed back the all too familiar yearning in his chest, he was always chasing Jack. He had no idea what he’d do if he ever caught up to him.

“Come on, let’s go to the creek.” Jack gestured with a nod of his head. “Splash ‘round.”

Tall, soft grass surrounded the gurgling creek, frogs chirped in contentment under the unseasonably warm sun. “Can’t believe tomorrow is Halloween.” Jack took off his shoes and set them on the creek bank. “It feels like summer still.” He dangled his feet in the water, basking in the glow of the sun.

Brock laid back in the grass, kicked off his shoes and gazed up at the sky. A cool breeze kissed his sweaty hair. “Are you going out for Halloween? Doing anything, you know, fun? Got a costume?”

“Oh I’m totally going to dress up and go trick or treating.” Jack said, “What am I? Seven? No, my cousin wants to go to the Haunted Corn Maze. Remember when we went that one time and you got lost, really really lost and they had to send out a search party?” Jack leaned over and plucked a reed, worried it between his teeth. “You really scared me.”

“I wasn’t lost. I got mad at the jerk dressed as a bloody clown and pushed him so they kicked me out. Wasn’t my fault you guys didn’t look in the car. Interrupted my nap.” Brock huffed out a sigh. “I’m banned from the Haunted Corn Maze. I’ll probably just watch a movie after handing out candy at Uncle Bob’s.”

“Scary movie?” Jack asked as he flicked the reed out into the creek. “Or funny movie?”

“Why? You wanna come over?”

Jack shrugged and wrapped his arms around his knees. “I thought you might be spending time with Michelle.”

Brock echoed his shrug. “Probably not. I mean, she’s nice but she’s really clingy. Gets really jealous and I’m not that kind of guy.”

“What kind of guy are you?” Jack rubbed his lip with the back of his thumb. “Seems like you have a new girlfriend every week. You’re going to run out of options in our class and have to start dating freshmen.”

Brock watched the movement of Jack’s thumb out of the corner of his eye and then glanced guiltily back at the blue sky. “Maybe I haven’t found the right person yet. Maybe I’m exploring my options.”

“Never figured you for the romantic type.” Jack snorted. “You just can’t turn down a pretty face.” 

“Doesn’t have to be pretty. Just intriguing. My boner isn’t picky.” Brock grinned, cheeky. “We could go to the dance together.” Jack raised his eyebrows. “You know, with some girls. Maybe get you laid. You’re all tense and nothing feels quite as good as—“ Jack kicked water at him before he could finish. “I know, I know. You’re concentrating on school and cross country and you’ve got no time for girls.”

Jack’s lips quirked in a crooked smile, there was a scar on his lower lip from the time he’d slid face first across a freshly waxed floor into a cabinet. “That’s right. I’ve got no time for girls. God.” Jack scoffed softly then he shook his head as if clearing his thoughts, “Sometimes, Brock, you’re so dense.” 

Jack took off his singlet and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his nylon shorts. He pulled them down and Brock looked back at the water, a flush of color high on his cheekbones. Cold water sprayed across Brock. “Hey you son of a—” he protested and the words died in his throat as he saw Jack standing in the creek, water licking at the soft hair that trailed from his navel downwards.

Jack held out his hand, a curious softness in his eyes. Brock could drown in those clear blue eyes, eyes he’d known forever and often thought about in quiet late night hours. “Come on Brock. Don’t you want to?” _Oh how he wanted to, but if he did, if he fucked this up… he could lose Jack. He couldn’t bear to lose Jack._

“I do not want to freeze my dick off, no.” He wound his fingers in his singlet, pulled it down to cover his traitorous groin. Jack took slow steps towards him until Jack was bracketed between Brock’s knees, too close. Brock’s breath seized up in his chest, his heart threatened to burst forth from his ribs. Cold, wet hands seared Brock’s cheeks as Jack cupped Brock’s face.

“What are you doing?” Brock whispered, his pulse pounding in his ears. Jack’s long eyelashes dusted his cheeks and he looked up through them at Brock. He parted his lips, wet them with the tip of his tongue and grabbed a fistful of Brock’s singlet, dragging him into the cold water. Brock yelped in shock and Jack laughed.

Brock pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and lunged at Jack, catching him about the waist. They rolled about in the mud of the creek, wrestling and each trying to get the upper hand. Muffled curses and splashes scared off the frogs. “Wait—“ Jack held up his hand before Brock could lunge at him again. “Do you hear that?”

 _Do I hear how loud my heart is beating?_ “No, I don’t hear anything.”

“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “Where are the bugs and the birds?” Jack parted the tall grass on the creek bank and blinked in surprise. Just beyond the bend of the creek, there was a magnificent black horse. It shook its long ebony mane, the hair floated in the water and whinnied.

“Look, it has a saddle on. I think it’s stuck in the mud.” Jack murmured. “We have to help it.”

“We should run back and get help. We can’t do anything, just the two of us. Stop trying to rescue every dumb animal we find.”

“You’re the one who got stuck in that tree rescuing Mrs. Smith’s kitten.” Jack tilted his head from side to side, studying the horse. “Why does it have a saddle?”

“I only climbed that tree because you were going to do it and you’d fall and break your neck.” Something didn’t feel right. The chill in Brock’s bones wasn’t from the water now. How could they have missed a horse in the creek? Brock turned to get his shoes. “So let’s go—“ Jack was walking in the creek towards the horse, butt naked and holding out his hand in supplication. The horse made noises of distress and shook its head.

“Pretty boy. Shhh. Shhh. I won’t hurt you.” Jack let the horse smell his hand, keeping his fingers flat. He smiled in satisfaction when the black satin horse let him put his hand on its muzzle. “There we go. See, I told you Brock. I bet I could even ride it out of here.”

“Jack. Don’t do that.” Brock pleaded from the creek bank. “You don’t know how to ride a horse. Please Jack, don’t do this.”

Jack’s jaw set stubbornly. “I do too. I just need to set my foot right,” He swung himself up, grasped a handful of ebony mane and crowed in triumph. “Look!”

Brock looked. Brock watched in helpless horror as inky black darkness oozed and flowed, ensnaring Jack’s legs and winding about his waist. It wasn’t a horse. It was a monster. Terrible yellow-white teeth gnashed. Red eyes bulged and nostrils flared. The horse-thing rose from the water as Jack screamed over and over, “Brock! Brock! BROCK!” 

 

 

“BROCK!” A fist slammed down on the counter in front of him. Brock jolted out of his memory and glared at his cousin Jerry. “I told you that the shipment of shabby chic decorative elements needed to be unloaded and put on the left display table. And what did you do?”

Brock sighed and adjusted his cheap polyester tie. “Want me to move it?”

“Yes I want you to move it! And dust the damn display windows, while you’re at it wash them.” Jerry wiped his finger on a spotless window, leaving a greasy smudge. “See, it’s disgusting.”

Brock closed his eyes and counted to ten before trusting himself to reply. “It sure is.”

“You really should be grateful my father is letting you sleep here. I’d charge you a lot more rent.” Jerry moved towards the door. “Try to make at least one sale before the storm hits. Justify my father’s generosity.”

Brock gritted his teeth. “Sure will Jerry. Give my best to Uncle Bob.”

“Oh we don’t talk about you at all.” Jerry pushed open the glass doors. “Why bother?” 

Brock waved at his cousin with one hand and clenched a fist with the other. When he was sure his cousin was gone, Brock punched the back of a recliner. It rocked in place and then tipped over. Brock sighed and righted the chair. “Sure will Jerry. I’m so grateful to be living in the basement of the store. It’s not like I needed windows. It’s not like I wanted to be trapped here.” Brock sat down in the recliner and ran his fingers through his hair, then traced his thumb over the prison tattoo on the inside of his right wrist.

The man who had inked him had one eye and no depth perception. He claimed that Brock was touched by _bad juju_ and needed the tattoo to protect him. Brock had wanted to avoid getting beat up by the would be tattoo artist, so now he had a constant reminder of his years in prison.

 _Not like anyone would let him forget it._ He still heard the whispers, the rumors. Some were silly, others made him want to vomit. 

He should leave. He should run away from this horrible place with all its horrible memories. _But what if Jack came back?_ Thunder shook the strip mall and the florescent lights swung back and forth on their fixtures overhead. Rain cascaded down from the sky, a sheet of grey.

There wouldn’t be any customers this afternoon. Brock walked to the door and shut the deadbolts.

God, he was a stupid bastard. It had been twenty years. Jack had a grave in the cemetery outside of town. Brock never visited it, not once. He knew the truth. Something had stolen his best friend. Something malevolent and wicked. Something called a _kelpie._ He’d read all the books, all the lore he could find and when that ran out, he buried his nose in fantasy novels. The hero always won in those.

And when the comfort of books ran cold, there was always the comfort of nameless warm thighs and wicked hot breath in the darkness. They could always count on Brock to be gone in the morning. He turned off the coffeemaker, poured out the stale brew into the sink beside it.

A knock on the door, a sharp rapping of knuckles. Brock sighed and set the carafe down, he wasn’t in the mood to entertain one of his enumerable fuck-buddies. “We’re closed.” More knocking, frantic now. The rain obscured the figure on the other side of the glass. “Hold on. Hold on.”

Brock unlocked the door. It was a child. A soaking wet, terrified little girl. “Let me in! Please!” Her big blue eyes pleaded with her words. Brock stepped aside and she rushed in, hid behind a repulsive mustard yellow velveteen couch that Brock had been trying to sell for months. “Don’t let them catch me!”

A pounding upon the door. Brock saw two men in dark suits standing outside the shop. Their faces were schooled into friendly smiles that did not reach their eyes, parodies of good intentions. Their eyes were black, malice black. The hair on the back of Brock’s neck stood up as he stood in front of the glass doors. His body felt heavy, as if he were swimming through frozen tar.

“ **Let us in**.” Brock felt voices vibrate through his skull. “ **Let us in**.” It was every authoritarian demand that Brock had ever heard, distilled into the essence of command. His bones yearned to obey. He reached out, fingertips grazed the deadbolt. He panted, his breath visible in the sudden cold. _Not this time._

“No!” Brock slammed the locks closed and shouted, his eyes screwed tight and watering from the effort. He fell to his knees and gasped for breath as pressure threatened to pop his eardrums and smash his bones. The doors shook and rattled as if the storm were trying to break in. “We’re closed!”

The pressure vanished and Brock’s eyes flew open in relief. He turned to reassure the little girl, “They’re gone—“

So was his visitor. The door to the storeroom was ajar, the girl must have went out the loading dock. She was all alone, all alone with those _things_ after her. Brock scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the old rusty iron crowbar beside the storeroom door.

_He’d always been a sucker for big blue eyes and strays._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Grief, interrogations, shitty living situations and mild xenophillia AKA Brock's Dick Isn't Picky

 

“We’ve called your Aunt Alice, she should be here soon. Can I ask you some questions?” Sheriff Jones sat down across the table from Brock and asked the question that Brock desperately wished he knew the answer to. "What happened to Jack, Brock?"

"Something took him. A big, black horse thing.” Brock rubbed his swollen, bloodshot eyes. "It was a demon." That was the only answer that made any sense to Brock. Something that he’d only heard of in Sunday School when his grandmother took him to church. Something he’d seen in a horror movie. A goddamned demon. 

Sheriff Jones took a sip of his coffee, set the paper cup down on the tabletop. "Are you sure it wasn't a person?" 

Brock pulled the woolen police blanket tight around his shoulders and shivered. “There was nothing human about that thing. Jack got up in the saddle and the thing dragged him down to... to somewhere. And I ran back here to get help and you can't find him. Why can't you find him? I need you to find him." Brock voice cracked and wavered. Sheriff Jones took another slow sip of coffee.

"Brock, demons don't exist." It was so easy for him to say that, he hadn’t seen Jack get swallowed up into the void. Hadn’t heard his screaming. 

"I know that. But I know what I saw." Brock curled his fingers into fists. “Something evil got Jack. Something foul. It was a demon.” 

“Were you two out there doing drugs?" The question hung in the air and Brock flushed red with anger. Of course they thought he was high. He’d only gotten caught smoking pot that one time behind the bleachers…

"No! We weren’t high. We were just out running. Jack wanted to qualify for State this year and he wanted to get some extra practice in.“ He sighed in resignation. "You don't believe me. You think I'm lying." Why wouldn't they? The whole thing was nuts. Crazy. But Jack's screams were far too real and they still echoed in Brock's ears. "I'm not lying. Please. Please believe me.” Brock pleaded with the stone-faced officer, already resigned to his fate. 

"I'm just looking for reasonable answers so we can find Jack." Sheriff Jones rapped his fingers on his thigh and said, "You two were pretty close. Best buds since kindergarten." Brock nodded. Jack had dared him to eat paste with him. Jack had shared his lunchbox when Brock’s aunt had forgotten to pack his. They sat on the top of the monkey bars during recess and argued about superheroes… ”Did you two have a fight?"

“You think— you think I—“ The insinuation made Brock's jaw clench. "You think I hurt him?"

The Sheriff drained his coffee cup and tossed it into a trash can. He leaned forward and looked into Brock's eyes. "It doesn't matter what I think, Brock, I'm just trying to get some answers. I've got a crying family out there and they need answers too. Can you help us?“

Tears welled up in Brock’s eyes and blurred his vision. Brock hated himself for being so weak. For being such a coward. ”I’d never hurt Jack." He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt him. I love him." And there it was. The truth. Why couldn’t he have said it sooner? Jack would never know now.

Sheriff Jones raised an eyebrow at Brock’s heartfelt confession. ”As a friend? Or more than that?" He leaned forward. "Did he reject you, Brock?"

Brock shook his head and huddled in the blanket as if it could shield him. “No! We were just friends."

"But you wanted more than that." Brock shrugged with one shoulder and the police officer nodded in understanding. “I’m going to ask you again. Brock, do you know where Jack is? Is he hurt? Did you hurt him?" 

“Please find my Jack. He’s out there, somewhere.” Brock’s face crumpled in hopelessness. “I ran as fast as I could. I ran so fast. I ran as fast as Jack—“ He buried his face in his hands. “I finally ran as fast as he did.”

Sheriff Jones nodded again with false empathy. “Do you know where Jack is?" None of them would ever understand. They couldn’t. There were no easy answers, nothing that could be explained away with evidence. In their eyes he was a liar. A druggie. A murderer. Brock stared at his hands, dirt from the creek wedged under his nails. 

”No." The Sheriff startled backwards at the fury in his gaze. His voice was steady, firm in conviction. 

_But I'll find him._

 

The little girl was cornered at the end of the alleyway behind the strip mall. The figures of the two men seemed to shift and flow in the rain, they hunched over with splayed claw-like fingers. Inky-black darkness that clutched at Brock’s heart with familiarity. These were evil things, creatures of night. Things like the kelpie that stole away his Jack.

Adrenaline throbbed in his veins. His fingers clenched about the crowbar, shifting to a sure, knowing grip. The promise of violence and vengeance was coppery and intoxicating in his mouth. The rain momentarily paused, puddles dotted the pavement swirling with oily irises.

“Get away from her!” Brock cried out. The things didn’t acknowledge his presence. He was nothing to them. The girl whimpered in distress just out of their grasping claws. Years of pain, guilt and regret bubbled up inside Brock. He wasn’t crazy, he hadn’t made it all up. These creatures existed.

And he was going to make them _pay._

One step. Two steps. And Brock was running towards them, the crowbar primed over his shoulder. The girl’s eyes widened and she dropped to the ground as Brock swung at the monsters’ heads. Instead of the meaty thunk of impact that Brock expected, there was a sickening, spitting pop. The crowbar exploded the creatures’ heads into a red mist and their bodies collapsed on the ground.

Brock looked at the crowbar in incredulity. “Wow.” The creatures’ bodies shimmered like the aftermath of a nightmare and disappeared. He held out one hand to the little girl, the other held onto the crowbar like a protective talisman. “Let’s get you home to your parents.”

Her big blue eyes narrowed and with a hint of a smirk said, “Thank you Mister. Mama and Papa must be so worried about me. I know the way home.” She strode down the alley past him, giving the crowbar the side-eye.

“Wait,” Brock reached out and touched her shoulder. “It’s not safe to be alone—“ The girl shimmered and flowed just like the creatures had, the little girl became a young man with sweet, irritated features. “What the _fuck._ ”

She slapped his hand away and glared at Brock with an expression too adult for someone her age. “Now how did you do that?” She backed Brock up against the alley wall. “How did you _see_ me?” She grabbed Brock’s right wrist and glared at the tattoo. “Crude. But effective.”

Brock pointed the crowbar at her and she dropped his hand. “You’re one of them. One of those creatures.”

“Hardly,” she sniffed in disdain. “Now I shall be on my way.”

Brock blurted out, “You owe me. I know the rules.” Countless fantasy novels, books of myths and legends had taught him that much. 

She sighed, dropped her tiny shoulders in resignation and stopped walking away from him. “You know nothing. But you did save me and of your own free will. I shall answer three questions.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

"Three questions. I can do this. Where do kelpies take their victims?" Rain water dripped down the back of his neck.

She smiled at him. “Now that's a question I wasn't expecting. The answer is easy enough and very unsatisfying. They take their victims to the Faelands." Brock raised his eyebrows and she scoffed in exasperation. “The lands where the Fae live. Faeries? You know of kelpies, surely you must understand this simplicity.” 

"How do I get to the Faelands?" The clouds darken further and thunder growled in the distance. 

"Again, a curious question.” She strode up to Brock and lifted up her pointed chin. “You _can't_. You need a guide." She turned on her heel and stepped away. "Next question."

Only one precious question left. Brock chewed on his lip. “I want to think about it."

“I’ll ask you questions then. Kelpies are the kidnappers of the Fae, they steal away mortals for the amusement and satisfaction of the Fae lords. Lost someone to the Fae have you?" 

Brock nodded, not trusting his voice.

She rocked back and forth, heel to toe and wiped rainwater from her forehead. “Someone very precious to you, more than life itself?"

Again, Brock nodded. There hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t thought about that moment at the creek. Whether it was triggered by his own regret, guilt or someone else’s accusations, he wore the experience like a cloak about his shoulders. 

She looked at him, narrowed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “That's a pity. They very rarely come back." Her stomach gurgled, loud enough to be heard over the drizzle. She clutched at her belly. “You'll need a very experienced guide, one that can see through illusions. It's so hard to think on an empty stomach."

Brock gestured towardshis basement. “I have food. I live downstairs in the store.” He held up a warning finger, "That was not a question."

She laughed, a trill of otherworldly chimes that echoed in the alley. “Oh don't be silly. I'll not trick you out of your last question. You saved my life and I owe you these answers in good faith. You have my word, my oath. But I am so, so hungry." She grinned at Brock with all her teeth, it would have been charming if Brock hadn’t seen her body shift form like liquid darkness. 

He flipped on the light in his basement studio apartment and casually tossed his wet suit jacket over the half-empty bottle of bulk lube in the corner. He hadn’t been expecting company tonight. Usually Jillian showed up on Tuesdays, Marco on Fridays, Dylan on— It didn’t matter. His relationships were brief and highly sexual. His dick was practically the only part of him that worked well. 

He opened his second-hand refrigerator’s freezer compartment and browsed his selection of bargain dinners. "Take your pick. I've got frozen burritos and TV dinners. Don't try the pesto thing, it's disgusting. I don’t know why I haven’t thrown it out.“

She sat on his lime-green fold-out couch, it was an ordering mistake that his uncle couldn’t return. His entire room was furnished with mistakes and errors. Paperback books lined the walls, stacked in precarious towers of yellowing paper. “So generous. But I fear that you don't understand what I'm famished for. It's very specific." Brock leaned against the refrigerator and crossed his arms. "Still not going to ask me a question? Then I'll volunteer it. I'm craving _you_.”

“Well. That’s gross.” He made a face of disgust and she scoffed at his distaste. “You’re a little kid. That’s gross.” 

She shrugged off her wet hoodie and it dropped in a sodden lump on the concrete floor. “I’m part succubus, dear one." She combed back her hair and dimpled at Brock. "I can be anyone you want. Your high school algebra teacher?" The small girl shifted, shimmered into the voluptuous form of Mrs. Bates, complete with a smear of chalk on her black cardigan. She played with her black horn-rimmed glasses and licked her lips. Brock swallowed hard. Mrs. Bates crooned, “How about your coach?" 

She rippled into Brock’s cross country coach, complete with red nylon shorts and a race singlet. He pulled up the singlet to expose endless abs dusted with downy hair that trailed down into the tiny shorts. Brock’s dick twitched with nostalgic interest. “Remember his cologne? Remember watching him in the showers? But why not indulge in your most treasured fantasy? You deserve it. Your best friend—“ 

Brock squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from the couch. It would be so easy. It would be so easy for Brock to let the thing on his couch turn into his Jack. “Don't. Just don’t.”

"Ah, so that's who you are pining for."

"Yes. I want to find him. I want to save him. I don’t want something that just looks like him, no matter how perfect.” An imitation was just that. 

It coughed, a delicate prompt. “Open your eyes, pet. And who do you see now?" Brock dared to open one eye and saw the form that had flickered into being when he grabbed the little girl in the alley. Brown hair flopped over blue eyes, chiseled cheekbones and a fine jaw that straddled the edge of masculine and feminine. It looked to be about twenty years old, at least a decade younger than Brock, maybe more.

"You're a cute kid." 

His guest’s lip curled in distaste and they enunciated each word like it was a vile epithet. ”A. Cute. Kid."

Brock shrugged, “You're younger than I am. _Kid_.”

"I'll have you know that I am nearly five hundred years old and considered to be one of the most radiant beauties in the Faelands. To look upon my true face is to be driven mad with lust." The kid threw back his head with a regal, haughty air.

Brock pulled a frozen mini pizza out of the freezer and popped it in the microwave.“I mean, you're attractive. You're certainly confident." He set the timer for three minutes.

“So you’re not driven mad with lust?” The kid fretted, worrying his plush pink lip with neat white teeth.

“It has been a long day.” Brock made an excuse to spare the kid’s feelings. “I’m kinda worn out by the whole destroying creatures with a crowbar.” The microwave dinged and Brock put the pizza on one of his clean plates. He handed the food to the kid. The kid swallowed as his stomach growled.

“It’s been a very long time since I showed this face to anyone, this is a true honor, I hope you are aware of this, Mortal.” The kid bit off a piece of pizza, winced as the molten cheese burnt his tongue. “An honor.”

“I’m sure it is, your Majesty.” Brock said flippantly as he selected a frozen entree. “I’m sure it is.”

“How did you know I am a king?” The kid asked with a mouth full of pepperoni.

“Oh just a guess.” Brock looked over at his guest. The kid blinked and then blinked _again._ _Two sets of eyelids._ “Whoa.” And that anatomical oddity did something to Brock’s most secret urges, most twisted pleasures. The shape-shifting was from one human form to another, but this was different. “Whoa. That’s— _intense._ ”

The kid tilted his head and licked grease from his finger tip with a extraordinarily long tongue. After a few moments, it blinked again while watching Brock’s reaction. Brock had to adjust himself in his work pants. His guest set the empty plate aside, folded their hands and said,“Yes.”

“I didn’t ask a question.” Brock said, still mesmerized by the alien thing sitting on his couch.

Blue eyes became black as lumps of onyx, inky even in the sclera. “Of course you did. I’ll be your guide to the Faelands. Aren’t you the luckiest mortal.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“They took my clothes,” Brock said from the passenger seat of his aunt’s baby blue station wagon. He wriggled his flip-flop clad toes. “And my shoes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His aunt sighed. “Evidence, they said. Maybe we’ll get them back. We can always buy new shoes.” She drove out of the police station parking lot, not looking at Jack’s parents who were staring at them. They drove in silence for several miles, their route taking them near the scene of the abduction. The moonlight glimmered on the creek as it flowed under the underpass.

Brock whimpered, “They were new.”

His aunt snapped, “I said we can buy new shoes!” Brock flinched at her tone. She shook her head. “It’s been a long night. Are you hungry?” She flipped on the turn signal for the diner near the underpass without waiting for Brock to answer.

The diner was empty aside from the cook and a waitress. They sat in a booth. “Two number sevens.” Aunt Alice ordered for them like always and shook sugar into her coffee. Brock sipped at his orange juice and traced a slow circle in the condensation on the table. His aunt rapped her fingers on the tabletop. “Brock. What happened?”

Brock clutched his fingers around the thick glass. “A demon stole Jack.” The sweet orange juice was bitter in his mouth. “That’s what happened.”

“You keep talking like that and you’ll get institutionalized like your mother.” The waitress brought their order. Aunt Alice smeared jam on her toast. “She was always seeing things that didn’t exist. God, I hope you didn’t get it from her. We don’t even know if your father was crazy like her or not. I’m grateful that sickness doesn’t run on my side of the family.”

“But I saw it,” Brock pleaded, “You have to believe me. Someone has to believe me.”

“Eat your eggs.”Aunt Alice poured ketchup on her hash browns. “They said that they didn’t have enough evidence to charge you with anything, but if you keep talking about demons, they’ll try to lock you up in the looney bin and after dealing with your mother, God rest her troubled soul, I’ll let them.” She chewed her mouthful. “Remember, we took you in after her accident, so you better shape up. Eat your eggs.”

It was easier to eat than to try to convince her of anything. It was stupid to try. Brock looked out at the creek in the darkness, water ebbed and flowed then disappeared under the overpass. He squinted into the moonlight, he could barely see the end of the trail. What if Jack was out there, cold and alone? Brock stood up. “I have to use the restroom.”

He slipped out the back door.

Brock lost his sandals running across the underpass, he barely felt the pain in his abraded feet as he made his way back to the creek. Briars and wickedly sharp brambles tore at his skin as he ran in the dark. “Jack! Jack!” His throat ached, his voice cracked like shattered glass. “Jack—“ He combed his fingers through the inky water, searching for anything that might give him hope.

A light. A bright light shone upon him. Brock stood up in the creek, shivering with cold and coated in mud. He squinted into the light, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Son. I need you to get out of the creek now.” Sheriff Jones held out his hand. Brock’s aunt was standing behind the officer, clutching her arms to her chest. She looked away from her bedraggled nephew in resigned disappointment. “We’re going to take you to the hospital, okay? Need to get you cleaned up.” Brock crawled up the creek bank, exhaustion slamming him to his hands and knees. His face crumpled with grief and he nodded. Maybe he was just like his crazy mother after all.

* * *

 

“What are you?” Brock asked the man-shaped thing on his lime-green couch. It grinned in response, the corners of its mouth stretched back to its ears. It slunk bonelessly off of the couch towards Brock. Brock took a step backwards in spite of his fascination and knocked over a pile of paperbacks. It laughed at him.

“Finally, a good question.” They sat back on the couch and the absurd piece of furniture suddenly appeared as a gaudy throne. The air trembled with pressure, that made Brock’s ears hurt. Their voice was deeper, more resonant as it announced, “I am the bridge between the Fae and Hell. Without me there would be no compact, no contract and no Fae. I am heir to the throne and yet banished from my legacy. I am the _Winter King!_ ”

A pause, then Brock replied, “Okay? That means pretty much nothing to me. Sorry.”

The Winter King huffed out a sigh of irritation, reminding Brock of his aunt. “Mortals. Always forgetting the important things. There’s supposed to be bonfires and dancing and human sacrifices in my honor, but nothing. Nothing! A thousand years pass and you’ve all forgotten us.” They crossed their arms and stuck out their lower lip in a pout that was rather adorable. “It sucks.” 

Brock sat down on the couch next to his guest as he tried to wrap his brain around the situation.“So, you’re a thousand years old? You don’t look a day over twenty.” He glanced over the Winter King’s body, “You can look like anyone you want?” A nod. “Is this your real form?”

“My skin suit. It allows me to walk about in the mortal realm without being noticed. Obviously if you are not driven mad with lust then it’s old and ratty. I’m tired of it.” The creature on his couch was ancient and strange, but Brock knew when someone was fishing for a compliment. He stifled a smile. 

“Oh I dunno. I think you look pretty cute. Can you do that thing with your eyes again?”

It blinked twice, watching Brock’s face carefully. Brock swallowed. “Wow, that’s cool. Can all Fae do the things you do?”

“Only one other can. My twin. You should pray to whatever god you believe in that you never meet them. But we are special even among the Fae, being half demon.” It reached out a hand and traced a line up the back of Brock’s hand. “Succubus, incubus, crossroads, archdemon. It matters not what we are called.”

"Huh.” Brock said numbly, the trail of the creature’s fingertip left a sensation of heat, a tingling promise.

The Winter King pulled off their remaining clothes, dropped them on the floor, any attempt at overt seduction abandoned. Slim limbs and flawless pale skin glowed in the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “I am exhausted and so, so hungry. And you are mean. Mean, mean, mean. Starving your guide.” They reached into Brock’s bedding basket beside the couch, grabbed a blanket. They wrapped themselves in a tight burrito upon the couch with a flourish.

“I fed you.” Brock protested. "You've still got pizza grease on your face."

A snort of disdain from beneath the blanket. “Mortal food. Pfft. I will find someone to feed me tomorrow since you will not. It would be so much easier if you did not have that stupid tattoo.” A whisper of a whine, “Am I not attractive? Have I truly lost my power to drive men mad? Has my power waned so close to the sacrifice?”

"The what?" Brock spread another blanket over them. "You keep saying things like I'm supposed to know what you mean. I don't even know if you're even male or female."

A hand poked out of the blankets, gestured in a flippant wave. "Gender is a human thing. I am the Winter King. I am whatever I want to be." The Winter King yawned. "My skin suit is a human male though, because it is much easier to travel alone that way and not waste energy on glamour disguises. I'm so hungry. Feels like my belly is turning inside out." They peeped out of the blankets, batted blue eyes that shifted to black for a moment. "All I need is a little bit of you. Why are you so selfish?"

"A little bit of what? And be specific, I'm not giving you a gallon of blood or a chunk of my arm.” Brock looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. "Or anything lower."

"Emotion mostly. Energy. Semen. You're just tossing it all away in balled up tissues anyway. It doesn't hurt. You might feel a little tired afterwards. I can smell your arousal and I'm not glamouring you. You're fascinated with the idea of the strange, the alien. Obsessed, I would wager. Obsessed with finding your lost playmate." They scooted closer, resting their head on Brock’s thigh. Soft brown hair spilled out of the blankets, it was so warm. "And I will help you find him." 

"But not out of the goodness of your heart." Brock carded his fingers through the tangled tendrils, silk against his fingertips. He was already seduced, now it was just negotiating the details. "There's a cost, isn't there?"

They pushed up against Brock’s fingers, feline-like, seeking out his touch. “There's always a cost. What is the name of your friend?" A slow blink of those alien lids, holding Brock’s gaze.

"Jack."

"What is Jack worth to you?" _The chance to find Jack? To clear his own name? To make things right? He’d pay any price._ “Many mortals have sold their souls to me for much less than a chance to rescue their beloved.” 

"What do you— want?" Brock’s voice hitched as the Winter King pressed a wet, hot kiss against his wrist. 

"I will be your guide, but you will be my--" Another searing kiss that caused a shiver up Brock’s spine. "How do I say this? My portable lunch. I will feed upon you during our journey."

_It could be worse._ “That's all?"

"Well of course as my champion you'll have to help me surmount any obstacles that make impede our path, that's quite reasonable, isn't it?" It was never that easy in the stories. He needed an escape plan that didn’t include eternal damnation. 

“Champion, huh? If I win whatever you’re going to have me compete in then I want one wish, one request that you have to grant.” 

A slim hand snaked out of the blankets and popped open one of the buttons on Brock’s work shirt. “Clever boy. I agree. If we survive then I shall have the power to grant any of your wishes.” Brock raised an eyebrow at that and the Winter King ensnared Brock’s tie with a clenched fist. They drew Brock down with ease until they were both a hairsbreadth away from touching, “Do not doubt me.”

“Wouldn’t dare. So how do we um, seal the deal?” 

They released Brock’s tie and began to stroke the teeth of his pants zipper. “We must exchange names and a drop of blood. Only a drop.” The sound of the zipper was obscenely loud in the basement.

Brock gasped out,  “My name is Brock. Don’t bite me there. Please.” 

A laugh. “I won’t bite. A true name freely given.” 

“What should I call you then?” Brock asked as another button was undone.

“You couldn’t pronounce my true name. It is not meant for mortal tongues. Give me a name.” A fingernail lengthened and sharpened, became a talon. “Name me, Brock.” A button was sliced off his shirt. The single bare bulb flickered above them.

“Winter?” It wasn’t the most creative name, but it was all Brock could come up with as the naked Fae-thing flung off the swaddling blankets and straddled Brock’s lap in a fluid motion. It drew the talon across its palm, then across Brock’s. It stung like a paper cut. It licked the droplet of blood from Brock’s palm and then its own. 

The room shook, vibrated as if a giant speaker blared beneath it. “It is done. The compact is sealed. I am Winter.” Lights crawled under Winter’s skin, purple and blue as if their veins were electrified. Winter’s eyes blackened again and then returned to clear blue as the surge of power dimmed. It was one of the hottest things Brock had ever seen.

“Whoa.” He blinked away the after-images on the inside of his eyelids. “What do you mean the compact is sealed?”

“I’ll tell you later. Now, I am _hungry._ ” Winter seized Brock’s face in its hands and kissed him breathless. “Feed me Brock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... do you like it?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild consumption, I suppose you could call it vore.

“Make a wish.” Michelle lit a single candle stuck into the top of a chocolate cupcake. “I thought about cramming eighteen candles on there, but that would probably be a fire hazard.” 

_Make a wish._ _Okay. I wish I could go back in time and fix everything._ Brock exhaled and blew out the candle. He forced himself to smile and Michelle sighed. The house was quiet, his aunt and uncle had taken his cousin to a theme park. Brock wasn’t invited and he hadn’t wanted to go. He hadn’t earned it. 

“When are you coming back to school? Graduation is coming up.” She plucked the candle from the icing and licked it. “You don’t have to stay at the hospital now. They can’t prosecute you with no evidence. So it doesn’t make sense to just hide out here. So, when are you coming back?” She glanced at the sketchbook on the edge of the table. It was filled with drawings of horse-shaped monsters in puddles of darkness. 

Brock propped his chin on his hand. “Is this my birthday interrogation?” 

She shrugged, her dark ringlets bounced with the movement. Any sane guy would be grateful to be with a beautiful, brainy girl who had her life planned out to the last day. “We’re planning a tribute for Jack, you know. At the graduation ceremony.” 

“He’s not dead.” Brock got two forks from the drawer and handed her one. “And I’m not going back. I know what they’re saying about me. Assholes.” 

Michelle sighed again, Brock knew he was disappointing her. He wasn’t fitting into her plans. “It’s just gossip. No one really thinks you really hurt Jack.” She poked at the cupcake with her fork. “Not with the way you felt about him.” They sat in silence for a moment and then Brock took a bite of chocolate icing with his fork.

“Jack’s family does.” Brock let the icing dissolve on his tongue. “I tried to tell them what happened, but they—“ He set the fork down. “Can’t blame them, I guess.” 

“Brock.” Michelle set her fork down as well. She looked him in the eyes and Brock wondered what was wrong with him. She was too good for him, that was all. “I think we should break up.” 

“We were never together, Michelle.” Brock picked up his fork and took another bite of cupcake. She squinted at him in annoyance as if expecting more of a protest. “You’re an amazing girl. You’ll do great at college. Probably be valedictorian. Again.”

She chewed on her lip and huffed out another sigh. Resignation. “You’re so— muted. It’s like you’re fading away Brock. It’s not right.” 

“That’s what eleven different medications tend to do, Michelle. I can’t go back to school. I’m not all there. I’m not ready.” He chewed and swallowed. “This is really good. Did you bake it?” 

“You know I can’t cook.” Michelle reached out and took his hand. She tilted her head to the side and whispered, even though they were the only ones in the house. “One more time? For the road?” 

Brock smiled with genuine amusement for the first time since he’d been released from the hospital. He interlaced their fingers. “Sure. Thank god my dick still works.” 

 

_Oh my god, why does my dick still work?_ Brock stared into the inky black eyes of the Winter King as the Fae-demon ground their ass down hard on Brock’s bare crotch. He couldn’t remember when he’d gotten naked. Couldn’t remember when he’d been harder. Ripples of purple-blue light flickered under Winter’s skin, flared and vanished. The air around them vibrated and the filament in the single bulb above them popped. “Oh— “ Brock breathed. “You glow in the dark.”

“It’s better in the dark.” Winter said against Brock’s throat. “That tattoo will make things difficult for you.” Brock’s sight slowly adjusted to the dim glow of Winter’s skin. He traced his fingers along the muscles in Winter’s flank. Winter seized his arm and drew it up to their mouth. A long, dark tongue slid out of sweet pink lips and curled about Brock’s wrist. It lapped at Brock’s palm and Brock thrust his groin upwards with a groan. 

Winter unwound their tongue and pressed their chest against Brock’s. “You’re not afraid?”

“I’m terrified.” Brock answered, “But I’m _okay_ with that?” Proof of everything he’d believed in was writhing in his lap, Brock gripped Winter’s hips and pulled the creature down against him. 

Winter laughed, the laugh echoed, rattled around in Brock’s brain. “Usually when I feed I am kind enough to glamour my supper into a sweet, benevolent dream. But you, you see through my glamours when you touch me. So, my champion, let us see how brave you are.” Winter held up an index finger, the nail razor-black and traced an X upon their soft abdomen. The skin parted as if rent by a scalpel and Winter peeled back the pieces revealing a star-speckled void. 

“What the fuck?” Brock whispered as Winter wriggled from his grasp, giggling. 

“I’m going to eat you alive, my champion.” Winter unzipped the rest of their skin suit until only their face was covered in a human-shaped shell. Brock stared, stunned into silence as he gazed into an endless star-studded blackness. Winter held out a rough-shaped paw in invitation, their head cocked to the side in curiosity. Brock took a deep breath and took the offered hand. Winter pulled… pulled… pulled Brock inside. 

It was warm, so warm. He saw purple and blue lights on the backs of his closed eyelids. Thousands of silken fingers caressed his skin and Brock gasped, his mouth invaded by what he hoped was a tongue. Weightless he floated until Winter’s voice purred into his brain. _Show me Brock. Show me how you feel. Try not to go mad, I have such hopes for you._

Brock opened his eyes and he was in a stranger’s bed. The stranger had had kind eyes and hadn’t minded buying more beer for a drunk boy. Brock scratched at the dried semen on his stomach and pulled back the covers. The stranger’s eyes were black and he exclaimed, “What are you still doing here? My wife will be home! Get out!” 

Brock stood on a street corner that he didn’t know. He didn’t even know what city he was in. He walked until he found a payphone, dialed the operator and made a collect call. Shame curdled in his stomach and landed upon the sidewalk. His uncle didn’t talk to him for the entire ride home. 

_Delicious. So satisfying. You are truly a rare treat._

Brock clutched at his own skin, his nails digging into his arms. “Stop it. This isn’t right—“ 

_Ah but my champion, I never specified which emotions I would feed upon. Your regret, your shame— it is so delicious. Show me more!_

Brock screamed until his throat was ragged and he was on the cross-country bus on the way home from a meet. It was dark and his cheek was pressed against the cool glass of a window. He glanced over at the warm body crammed against him in the seat. Jack was asleep, covered up in his letterman’s jacket and dozing on Brock’s shoulder. Long eyelashes dusted his freckle-speckled cheeks. Pink sweet lips murmured something unintelligible. Brock felt his cheeks heat and he looked back out the window at the endless stars. 

_So sweet. So sweet. Now for dessert._

Brock felt the imminent thrill of an orgasm rip up his spine and he gasped in pleasure. Every inch of his skin was caressed, stroked and fondled. Something pulled on his hair and Brock bared his throat in submission. He thrust, again and again into the void until finally he spurted into the darkness. 

_Such a worthy champion, you might yet survive this quest._

Limp with exertion, bone-weary with exhaustion Brock collapsed on the lime-green mundanity of his couch. He watched as Winter pulled on their skin-suit, zipped it up delicately asa lady putting on fine lingerie. When the mask face slid into place, Brock’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. A blanket curled over his naked, spent body and Winter hummed in serene satisfaction and patted Brock’s sweat-damp hair. 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Wow._ Brock groaned and rubbed his gritty, crusted eyes. It wasn’t Body Shot Friday again, was it? That was the only explanation for his swirling, chaotic dreams about skin-walking demons with inky-dark eyes and sweet pink lips. He blinked, pushed his hair back and took in his surroundings. He was home, sitting naked on his couch in the dark. That was good, sometimes he was still in a stranger’s home and they’d try to make him breakfast. An awkward breakfast was never a tasty breakfast.

He got up, cracked his back and stumbled over to the refrigerator for a bottle of electrolytes. This was not his first hangover and he had to open the store. He paused, a mouthful of orange drink still in his throat and with a sense of impending dread glanced over at the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock. 

_Oh shit._ He’d overslept. He’d slept through the whole damn day. _Jerry would kill him. Yes, there would be a murder and no one would blame Jerry at all._ Brock dashed for the bathroom closet and tripped. Tripped over something fleshy in the dark. Brock looked down and dropped the bottle of orange sports drink, it splashed over the prone nude body of his cousin Jerry.

“What the f—“ Brock began and was interrupted by a burst of giggles, laughter that echoed like bells against the walls of the basement.

Winter stepped out of the bathroom, illuminated by the lamp on the toilet tank and crouched over Jerry, gave him a little poke with a finger. “Took you forever to wake up, my champion. I got bored. Had a little snack. He was so _loud_.” Brock reached out with trembling fingers, felt for a pulse. “Oh I didn’t kill him. I mean, I wanted to after seeing what is lurking inside that soul, but I thought you might frown on me making a mess in your home. I am royalty, after all. I have manners.”

“That’s my cousin.” Brock sat back on his haunches and squinted through his headache. It was unmistakably Jerry, right down to that rash he always complained about at Thanksgiving and the snarling cartoon wolf tattoo on his bicep labeled, _Alpha Male._

Winter shrugged and stepped over Jerry. “Are you fond of your cousin?” 

Brock glanced at the man who had never missed an opportunity to tell Brock that he was a worthless leech upon the family, then shook his head. “No.” He stood up and did his best to drag Jerry over to the carpet, turned his face so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. “But he’s still family. You can’t choose your family.” 

Winter cocked their head to the side in bemusement. “No. You cannot. Such words of wisdom, my champion.” They grinned and drummed their heels in delight upon the couch. “Want to know what I saw in his soul? It was vile and very entertaining. I was even inspired to attempt new versions of atrocities. You mortals have such vivid imaginations, it almost feels like cheating.”

Brock shivered, suddenly very aware of his own nudity. “No. I think I’ll pass.” 

“I quit your job for you.” Winter flicked their fingers at Brock in annoyance. “Wash yourself. You smell.” 

“Thanks.” Brock picked up the spilled bottle of sports drink. He took a swig, swished it around his mouth and then swallowed. “Is there any chance that I’m asleep still and I’m just dreaming all of this madness?” He indicated the room with a sweep of his bottle. 

“Oh that is so droll.” Winter sprouted a talon from their fingertip and licked it with sensuous deliberation. “You are more awake to the truths of this world than most mortals outside of an asylum. I’ll open your eyes, my champion. Even if I have to pry them apart. Now, do you have a car?” 

 

 

Winter crossed their arms and stuck out their lip in a pout as the public bus lurched away from the stop and trundled down the street. “This is not how a king should be transported to their coronation.” They elbowed Brock out of sheer pettiness. 

“Well it was either this or you could have ridden on the handlebars of my bicycle.” Brock adjusted the duffel bag by his feet. It was absurd how his entire life could fit into a single canvas bag. The iron crowbar was sheathed in a couple of long tube socks, but Winter still shrank away from the bag. 

“The smell of cold iron makes my nose itch.” Winter wrinkled his nose like a disgruntled rabbit and snuggled into their ratty hoodie. It was quite cute if you weren’t aware of what lurked beneath that charming veneer. But really, did you ever know what was lurking beneath the surface of anyone? “Public transportation is vile.”

Brock rolled his eyes behind his dark sunglasses. “Sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty.” His headache was not fading. “So, is it going to be that _intense_ every time you feed? Because I’m not sure I’ll survive many more brunches.”

Winter snorted. “I warned you that I was starving. I told you. But no, I can feed in less _traumatic_ ways, if your delicate constitution requires that care.” They squeezed Brock’s thigh. “I could feed upon you right now.” Fingers massaged Brock’s muscles and danced over his groin. Brock grabbed Winter’s hand and placed it back in their own lap. “I’m not in the mood. And I’d prefer not to get arrested. That might delay your coronation a little.” 

“Why must you be such a bother?” Winter pulled Brock’s chin down, ran their thumb over Brock’s lower lip and kissed him. It felt as if all the fatigue, nausea and pain of the hangover were drawn out of Brock’s body, as if suckled from a straw. Winter let go of Brock’s chin, a puff of white vapor huffed out from their lips. Winter wiped their lips with the back of their hand and then settled back into the bus seat. “Happy now?” 

Brock shivered from head to toe, awash in endorphins and magic. “What did you just do?” 

The Winter King rested their head on their hand and stared out the bus window. “I ate your pain. It is easier after the first feeding, after the first bonding. And remember, I had a snack.” 

Brock took off his sunglasses and made accidental eye contact with an older lady. She shook her head at him in disapproval and then went back to her book. “Huh.” Brock scratched the stubble on his jaw. “I guess some people don’t like public displays of affection.” 

“They think I’m your son.” Winter snickered with malice. “That’s what they see. Don’t you wish you had a car now, _Daddy_?” They batted big blue eyes at Brock. 

“But you’re not my kid. Not even close! We don’t even look alike!” Brock sputtered too loudly in protest. The lady made a face of revulsion and moved up to the front of the bus. “Now why would you do that? Don’t you want to not be noticed?” 

“I got bored.” A liquid shrug and they stared out the window again. “Allow me the luxury of boredom.” 

Brock sighed. It wasn’t as if he had the most sterling reputation to uphold. Someone wasn’t repulsed by their little display. An old man was staring at them over the top of the seat in front of them, unblinking with fascination. His eyelids blinked out of sync, one slightly later than the other. He opened his mouth, rimmed with snuggled yellow teeth and blurted out, “I know you!” 

“Bob’s Furniture Warehouse. We had a commercial a while back.” Brock volunteered. The commercial had done more for Brock’s sex life than the sales at the store. Lots of bored housewives came in to check out the credenzas and then the cushions on Brock’s lime green couch. 

The odd little man shook his head. “Nooooooo. Not you. I know you.” He pointed at Winter and hissed out, “Your Majesty!” 

“Oh fuck!” Winter blurted out and tried to hide deeper in their hoodie. “Go away!” 

The man scratched his bald head and clicked their dentures in delight. “I know you. I know you. I can smell your magic.” He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. “You fed. You fed on that one. It smells so good. I haven’t fed in so long. So so long.” 

_Oh fuck indeed._ Another creature. “What are you?” Brock blurted out and edged his hand closer to the crowbar in his duffel bag.

“It’s nothing.” Winter sniffed from the confines of his hood. “It’s just a _changeling_. A Fae left in the cradle of a stolen mortal child as punishment. Disgusting creatures with only the vague memory of being something glorious.”

“I was— I was—“ The changeling rocked back and forth in his seat. “I was something beautiful. I was something wonderful. I was—“ He pointed at Winter. “I was like _you._ ”

“You were never like me. There is only one other like me. You aren’t even worth stepping on.” Winter’s bravado was at odds with how they seemed to sink back into the bus seat, hiding behind Brock. 

“I know. I know. I know. I know someone who can make me beautiful again.” 

Winter muttered, “Shit.” 

“The Summer King!” The changeling crowed in triumph, earning him a warning look in the mirror from the bus driver. “The Summer King would reward me, would pardon my sins, would make me beautiful again!” 

“They’d burn out your eyes for having the impudence for looking at them.” Winter clutched at Brock’s arm, “Smite him, my champion.” 

Brock blinked. “Smite him? Like right here? On the _bus_?” The changeling rocked back and forth and hooted in glee. “Can you see why that would be a bad idea? I mean, there’s security cameras and witnesses and oh my god I cannot believe I have to explain this. _No_.”

“You would defy the my orders!? Give this lout a taste of cold iron!” Winter’s grip tightened painfully on Brock’s biceps, “You are my champion!” 

“Yes, yes, give us a taste. Give us a taste!” The changeling lunged for Brock’s other hand before Brock could snatch it back. The creature blurred when they touched and for a moment, there was a softly glowing pointed-ear girl instead. Brock’s eyes widened and the changeling whimpered, “You can see me?” Brock nodded and tears flowed down the girl’s cheeks. “Am I still beautiful?”

Winter snorted in derision and Brock elbowed him. “Yeah— I mean, I think you’re beautiful.” She pressed his hand against her tear-wet face and traced the tattoo upon his wrist. 

“The Winter King’s Champion thinks that I am beautiful. After all these years—“ The changeling licked Brock’s palm with a tongue too long for that pretty mouth and Brock tried to take back his hand. She dug her nails into his skin until they threatened to pierce it. “I must taste you. I must!” 

Winter pulled back their hoodie, squared their shoulders and spoke with imperious command. “You know how rare he is, touched by Fae, cursed by fate.” Winter ran their fingers through Brock’s hair possessively. He belongs to me. Only me. If you desire a taste, you must bargain for it. What do you, a lowly changeling, have that the Winter King could possibly want?”

She fidgeted in her seat and her nails cut into Brock’s skin, he winced in pain as blood oozed out from the punctures. “I— I— I have nothing? I have nothing— I have _eyes!_ ” She grinned, her beauty marred by a smile too wide for a human face. “I never saw you. I never smelled you. I never—“ She moaned against Brock’s skin, “I offer my loyalty, my loyalty to you, the Winter King!” 

“In exchange for a taste of my champion,” Winter’s eyes gleamed inky black. “Your loyalty is sworn to me. The deal is done. The compact is sealed.” 

The changeling crowed in triumph. “The deal is done. The compact is sealed. Now give us a kiss, tasty one.”

“Don’t I have any say in this?” Brock muttered as the changeling pushed in, crowding her way into his lap. She dropped his hand and instantly there was a wizen, bald old man sitting in Brock’s lap. “Gah!” Brock cried out in alarm. 

“Tell me I am beautiful.” The old man crooned in Brock’s face, parchment skin and yellow teeth glistening. The changeling’s breath smelled like old blood and decay. “Tell me I am beautiful again.” The idea of repeating the feeding that Winter had done with this wretched creature was repellent. _It’s all an illusion,_ Brock told himself. It was a really good illusion. 

Winter chuckled nastily at Brock’s squirming discomfort. “A bargain struck is a bargain that must be kept. I just love all the people you meet on public transportation.” 

“But— I don’t know how to do this! I don’t even know your name—” Brock protested. “And it’s our stop—“ At that moment, the bus driver slammed on the brakes, throwing the changeling back against the bus seat and Brock sighed with relief. “See I told you.” 

“Take that nonsense off of my bus!” The bus driver ordered.

Brock stood up, dumping the changeling off of his lap into the aisle, grabbed his duffle bag and Winter about the elbow. “It has been a real pleasure. We’ll settle up later, you know when there’s some privacy, maybe a nice bottle of wine or three, some mood music?” 

“You will not cheat me!” The changeling screeched. 

“Of course not.” Brock swallowed back his bile, reached out and ran the back of his hand against a suddenly silken cheek. “You’re far too beautiful to turn away. But I want to do this properly, I want to be a feast— not a dirty bus snack.” He backed away, pulling Winter behind him down the stairs. “Until then, my beautiful lady, remember our bargain. There was no time limit specified.”

The doors shut behind them and the bus pulled away from the curb. The changeling pressed their face against the window, drool dripping down the glass. They mouthed words at Brock that he didn’t really want to understand and suckled at their blood stained fingernails. 

Brock stood with Winter under the streetlamp in silence. Winter shoved their hand deep in their hoodie pocket and rocked back and forth on their heels. Brock stared at the bloody fingernail cuts on his wrist and prayed that his tetanus shot covered the Fae too. 

“What did you mean when you said I was _rare_?” Brock asked. “What’s so special about me?” 

Winter shrugged, whistled a tune into the night and walked off into the darkness. Brock shouldered his bag, the comfort of cold iron close at hand, and followed. 


	6. Chapter 6

 

“You mean, you really haven’t noticed it?” Jack asked from the bottom bunk, newspaper rustling. Brock sighed in the top bunk and tried to figure out his chemistry homework as his feet dangled off the far edge of the bed. Jack had had these bunkbeds for too long, they were both too tall to fit all the way on the twin mattresses now. “I mean, this town has some really weird stuff happening all the time. It’s like people don’t want to talk about it though.” 

“Uncle Bob says that it would ruin the property values if people started taking it seriously. Like the lights in the sky, nobody even mentions those anymore.”  _It was okay to mention those to Jack. Jack wouldn't laugh at him._

“I swear, sometimes I think I see things in the shadows.” Jack murmured thoughtfully, “Like there’s something out there watching us, right out of the corner of my eye and when I glance over, it’s gone. But I feel it. Shadows that move when there's no wind, when the air is still.” 

Brock looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the popcorn ceiling of Jack’s room. There was a years old crack in the paint from when Brock had knocked his head against the ceiling.  “Take it from me, Jack. It’s better not to talk about that. Telling people you can see strange things that aren’t there is a great way to get yourself locked up in the looney bin.” He’d been so little the last time he’d seen his mother. Great dark shadows encircled her eyes when she hugged him for the last time. She smelled like vodka, her skin drawn tight over her skull, wrist bones sharp as a frail bird’s wing. 

“Sorry. I guess I forgot.” Jack apologized. Jack was the only person who seemed to care about Brock’s feelings about his dead mother. Everyone else treated her memory like one of the odd inexplicable lights in the sky. 

Brock shrugged, it didn't hurt if he didn't think about it. Numb was just as good as forgiveness.“Did you get the answer to number four?” Brock chewed on the eraser of his pencil in frustration. “I just don’t get this one.” 

“If you paid attention in class, you’d know the answer.” Jack added another clipping to his collection, with a distinctive rip of the tape dispenser. 

“I couldn’t help it. Somebody had their foot in my crotch.” Brock smiled to himself. Michelle was frisky these days. Nobody ever expected it from the honor students. 

“You’re going to get a foot up your ass if you fail chemistry.” Jack snorted. “There’s another giant circle of toadstools outside the library again. A faerie ring. Dad says that they’ve messed up the fertilizer ratio or something. But these are big ass mushrooms. Poisonous too, I think.” Another rip of tape. “There’s something weird out there and I’m going to figure it out. It can't just be in my head.” 

“Huh. That’s very interesting. Can you tell me the answer to number four?”

Jack stood up, his head rising up above the edge of the upper bunk to glare at Brock. “I’m not going to just tell you the answer.” 

Brock batted his eyelashes at Jack and simpered, his pencil still dangling from his lips. “Pretty please? Pleeeeeease?”

“You can’t just— you can’t just do that.” Jack huffed out and sat back down on his bunk. “Do you think the world is going to give you all the answers just because you’re kinda cute?”  _Kinda cute? Huh. I can work with that._

Brock rolled over and let his head hang over the edge of the upper bunk. “Well I’m not going to change the world with my brains. I’ll be lucky if I graduate.” He grinned at Jack. “So, old buddy, old _pal_. I’ll work with what I’ve got.” Jack sighed and shut his scrapbook with a snap. “Anyway, you’ll be heading off to college and leaving me behind in this creepy town.” 

“You don’t have to stay here.” Jack rubbed his arms. “You could come with me. Maybe get an athletic scholarship or something?” 

Brock barked out a bitter laugh and rolled back onto the bunk. “I can’t even beat _you_ in a race. I’ll probably just find a nice girl, get a job at the charcoal plant, have some kids and drink too much. Seems to be the traditional thing to do.” _Since I can’t have what I really want._ Brock dangled his arm over the edge of the bed. “Some of us just aren’t meant for anything special.” 

“It makes me sick when you talk like that.” Jack said, quietly as if not trusting his words. “You talk like you’re nothing. You’re not _nothing._ ” Brock felt Jack’s fingers slide up his palm, tentative and gentle. Their hands clasped and Brock’s heart clenched in his chest. Jack was the smartest, most promising person Brock knew. Jack had all the answers. But Jack was wrong. Brock wasn’t going to ruin his best friend’s life, wasn’t going to drag him down into mediocrity with his selfish desires. Even if the mere touch of his skin caused electric excitement to jolt up his arm.

“So, what’s the answer to number four?” Brock chirped, breaking the far too charged mood. Jack slapped Brock’s hand away in exasperation. 

“B. The answer is B.” The springs in Jack’s mattress squeaked as he flung himself back on the bunk. “B for _B_ _lockheaded_ _Brock_.” 

 

 

One microwaved Quik-Stop burrito settled in Brock’s guts. He didn’t really taste it as they sat on the curb outside the convenience store. That was a small blessing. Winter slurped at a neon purple slushy that reminded Brock of the lights that could flicker under the Fae-demon’s skin. Brock stuffed a bag of snacks into his duffel just in case he met more hungry things in the dark. He studied the red crescents bites in his skin. “What do changelings eat?” Hopefully they enjoyed pork rinds.

Winter’s pink plush lips curled in a smile around his straw. “Changelings are flesh-eaters. That’s why mortals never get their babies back.” 

“What the f—“ Brock sputtered, “You sold me to a cannibal? What the hell was it going to take a taste of?” 

Winter shrugged and took a long pull on their drink. “I’d recommend an earlobe, something that you won’t really miss. I was impressed that you managed to delay the consummation of the deal though.”

Brock ran his hand through his hair, wondering not for the first time that day what he’d gotten himself into. “I don’t have many parts of me that I won’t miss. So can you not sell me to the next hungry Fae we run into? I won’t be good for fighting if I’m missing chunks.” He sounded too calm, was he in shock? Or did everything seem a little mundane after he’d been literally devoured, had his most painful and blissful memories relived and the best orgasm ever? Or was the promise of finding Jack that powerful? “Just— give me a heads up next time.” 

Winter cocked their head to the side and regarded Brock. “So you are not reneging upon our deal then? That is fortunate. There are not many like you, my champion.”

“Stupid?” Brock scratched the stubble on his chin. “There’s a lot of stupid people out there.” 

Winter finished their drink with a loud slurp. “But very few of them have what you do.” 

“A regrettable tattoo.” The changeling’s claw marks were close to the lines of ink on Brock’s wrist. “Seems pretty common to me.” 

Winter smirked. “The Sight. It’s faint, barely awakened, but you have it. The crude ward on your wrist only focuses it. You never saw things that weren’t really there? Shadows that moved on days when there was no wind?” 

“That was my mother. My poor crazy mother.” _She talked to animals. And they listened. Then she started talking to thin air and it talked back. The air whispered terrible things back to her. He heard the voices too, but he was too scared to admit it. No one would have believed a child._ Brock wrapped his arms about his knees. “And Jack.” 

Winter heard the lie in his voice. “It is difficult to live with the Sight. Difficult for gifted mortals to retain that thin veneer of arrogance and denial that allows them to exist comfortably. It also-- makes you taste _delicious_.”

“It’s a shitty gift.” Brock muttered. 

“Most Gifts are. They are given by chance, by a whim of fate. You cannot seize a Gift.” 

“Is that why they took Jack? Because he had the Sight?” Brock’s fist clenched. Winter nodded. “They should have taken me instead. It should have been me. No one would have missed me. Everyone misses Jack.” He was not going to cry. He’d cried too many times. “I will find him.” _And I will bring him back._

“What are the odds of two young men with the Sight in their blood becoming childhood sweethearts? It must be destiny.” Winter pulled their hood up, concealing their face. “What are the odds, indeed.” They stood up and held out their hand. “Come with me, my champion. Together we shall spit in the eye of destiny.” 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Soft. Warm. Brock slotted his body close to the person in his bed. He couldn’t remember who he’d brought back from the bar. It didn’t really matter. They were warm. Soft and hard in the right places. The taste of salt and sweat up on their skin. But they were never the one he wanted. Never.

“Jack.” He whispered, his lips pressed against their back. Whisper quiet as a heartbeat in the dark. They stiffened, they heard. 

“My name is _not_ Jack.” They threw back the blankets and flounced away. Brock heard a door slam outside. He rolled over and pulled out a baggie of powder from the collection of pills and powders in his bedside table. When he couldn’t lose himself in the flesh of another human, chemical oblivion was almost as good. 

 

“Where are we going?” Brock rubbed at the back of his neck. They’d been walking for hours, Winter refused to step on another bus. They walked away from his home, away from everything he’d known. He’d only stayed in hopes that someday Jack would return to him. A life on hold, a life wasted waiting. 

“We’re going to leave the city soon.” They’d already passed the cheerfully misleading sign welcoming travelers and promising them a great time. They looked like a couple of hitchhikers and Brock had already waved off several interested parties. “Is the entrance to the Faelands out in the suburbs? It’s getting late.” 

Winter shook their head, tight tattered jeans slung low on their hips. “When the sun sets, the leylines will begin to glow. We follow the leylines to the entrance. It is easier to see them without the lights from the city. Humans. Always disrupting the natural order of things.” 

“And yet, we do have our uses. Mind if we take a break?” Brock asked, fishing out a warm bottle of water from his duffel bag. Winter shrugged and they stepped off the side of the road. They sat on a drainage pipe beside the road. Winter chewed on their lower lip, anxious and impatient. 

“You know, worrying about it won’t make the sun set sooner.” Brock sipped at his water and Winter shot him a glare. “Okay. What’s got you so anxious?” 

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe because _you_ are my champion?” Winter wrapped their arms around their knees and stared off at the horizon. “If you fail—“ 

“What happens if I fail? Mind you, I have no idea what I’m even expected to attempt.” 

“Mortals have a saying, a matter of life or death.” Inky black eyes pinned Brock with their intensity. “I’d rather not perish.”

“Well finally we have something in common. Pretty sure none of us want to die.” Brock capped the water bottle. 

“Are you sure? Have you seen your pathetic life?” Winter snorted. “You wake up in the morning and pray for the day to be over. You pine for a lost future, a possibility that you were never guaranteed. Just another mortal, buffeted about by the whims of fate and the cruel spite of destiny. You were promised happiness, but only found woe.” Winter shook their head. “Shitty life.” 

Brock blinked. _Was Winter talking about him or themselves?_ “Hey now. It was a shitty life, I admit that, but if you keep your promises then I might have a chance at making it better.” 

“Hope is cold comfort. A frail and tattered thing.” Winter broke off a piece of grass and stared at it. “Hope is for beings that cannot plan.” 

“Sometimes it’s all we have.” Brock sighed. “Want some jerky?” 

“No.” Winter pivoted, slung their leg over Brock’s lap and sat in his lap. Soft human skin hands cupped Brock’s face, warm in the chill of the dusk air. Winter double blinked, let his long serpentine tongue creep from his lips. Brock parted his own lips and permitted that alien appendage to breach his mouth. Winter’s lips sealed over his and the tongue thrust down Brock’s throat until he gagged. Winter pulled back, a smirk on their lips as Brock shivered in arousal and disgust. “You are an odd mortal. I can taste your desire, feel your hardness against me even as your animal instincts tell you to run. What makes you want me?” 

Brock shrugged and babbled to cover up his uneasiness. “Um. I guess I’m just wired wrong? My dick isn’t picky? Okay, the tongue thing? That’s different. Not bad. But different.” _Do it again._ “Aren’t you hungry? You know, for my deepest, most painful secrets and memories? Cause it’s such a blast reliving those. A real blast.” 

“You need your strength for the next challenge.” Winter smirked. “And that not so picky cock.”

“Well that’s a bit horrifying. Do I have to fuck my way into the Faelands?” Brock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and Winter grabbed his wrist, pointed at the crude tattoo. 

“Why were you in prison?” Winter demanded, changing the subject and Brock looked away, still ashamed. “Tell me. Or I can rip the answers from your mind, if you prefer.”

“A series of stupid choices is the short answer. Drugs chased away the pain for a little bit. Sex and booze numbed it. I hurt someone when I was drunk and high. So I got sent away and that’s where I got this little party favor.” Brock slid his hands up Winter’s thighs, circled their narrow waist and gripped lithe hips. “I don’t recommend it.” 

Winter nodded and after a moment said, “I was banished to the mortal realm the moment I became of age to ascend the throne. I was a threat to the throne. This place is like a prison to me. If I came back to the Faelands before finding a champion, I would forfeit my life. That’s why they were trying to capture me, to drag me back for an execution.” 

“That doesn’t seem very fair.” It had to be adrenaline, the possibility that the next few hours could be his last, that had to be why Brock pulled Winter close. “The Summer King was born moments before I was and they’ve continued to take ruthless advantage of that quirk of fate. It is quite dumbfounding as to how a few seconds can determine your entire destiny.”

“Yeah. It is.” Brock recklessly stole a kiss. Winter’s eyes opened wide with surprise and before they could protest, Brock asked, “Can you take the throne? There has to be a way, otherwise you’d still be running, wouldn’t you?” 

Winter smiled. “Finally, my champion, asking the correct questions. The wind has ears. There are always spies in the tall grass. I will tell you when the moment comes.”

“I’m not a fan of _spontaneous._ ” Brock protested. “Not when my life, not when my friend’s life is at stake.” 

Winter kissed Brock’s eyelids, anointing them. “Look at the leylines. Can you see them?” 

Trails of soft blue light throbbed in and out of Brock’s field of vision. “I can. I think. They’re fuzzy.” He squinted at the nexus, where the glowing lines converged. 

“That place. That is where we must go. You must get the key to the entrance from the Guardian.” Winter pointed and hopped off of Brock’s lap. 

“The what from the who now?” Brock blinked in bewilderment. “How do I do that?” 

Winter brushed his knuckles against the bulge in Brock’s pants, pivoted and shoved their hands back in their pockets. “You might have to fuck your way into the Faelands.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh.


End file.
